Alas! thou art a faithless friend,
    Thy warmth was but dissimulation;
  Thy tepid glow is at an end,
    And I am nowhere near my station!

  I shiver, cold in feet and hands,
    It is a legal form of slaughter,
  They don’t warm(!) trains in other lands
    With half a pint of tepid water.

  I spurn thy coldness with a kick,
    And pile on rugs as my protectors. 
  I’d send—­to warm them—­to Old Nick,
    Thy parsimonious Directors!

* * * * *

RICH V. POOR.

(A NOTE KINDLY CONTRIBUTED BY OUR OWN GRAPHIC REPORTER.)

Nothing could have been more impressive than the closing scene of a trial that was one of the features of the present Sessions.  The Counsel for the Prisoner made no pretence of hiding his emotion, and freely used his pocket-handkerchief.  Many ladies who had until now been occupied in using opera-glasses, at this point relinquished those assistants to the eyesight, to fall back upon the restorative properties of bottles filled with smelling-salts.  Even his Lordship on the Bench was seemingly touched to the very quick by the Prisoner’s dignified appeal for mercy.  Before passing sentence, the Judge glanced for a moment at the number of titled and other highly respectable witnesses who had testified to the integrity of the accused.  Then he addressed the Prisoner:—­

“You have pleaded guilty to an indictment which charges you with having misappropriated trust moneys.  You have reduced a fortune of L28,000 to L7,000.  This means a wretched pittance to beneficiaries who, before your fraud, were enjoying a fairly decent income.  I am aware that you are a distinguished Magistrate,—­that you have belonged to many Clubs,—­that there is not a slur upon the cooking that used to distinguish your dinner-parties.  I know the severity of the sentence I am about to pass, and I wish my conscience would permit me to give you a lighter punishment.  But I cannot.”

The accused was then sentenced to five years’ penal servitude.

A little later another prisoner was put in the dock for stealing twenty shillings.  The prisoner (who was a sailor) was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude, and seven years’ police supervision.  The case was of no public interest.

* * * * *

THE MODESTY OF GENIUS.

  When TRAILL his list of Minor Poets drew,
  SPRUGGE’s friends exclaimed, “Why, SPRUGGE, he’s left out you!”

  To which SPRUGGE calmly answered, “Yes, I know it;
  And he is right.  I’m not a Minor Poet.”

* * * * *

[Illustration]

FROM AN IRISH REPORTER IN A TROUBLED DISTRICT.—­“The Police patrolled the street all night, but for all that there was no disturbance.”

* * * * *

NEW SONG OF TRIUMPH FOR SALVATIONISTS AT EASTBOURNE, ACCOMPANIED BY DRUM AND IRRELIGIOUS CYMBALS.—­“Tra-la-la-Booth-te-ray!”